Club Dead

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Club Dead is Dead

“It’s time to stop Club Dead.”

I didn’t respond.

“Did you hear me?”

“You started it Mr. Blok. You can stop it.”

“Fabian, that’s not entirely accurate. And beside the point. Considering what has happened, I think it best.”

“You can say suicide Mr. Blok. I won’t collapse on you.”

“Your mother believes it might not have been a suicide attempt.”

“You know mothers, sugar-coating the horror…”

“And another thing Fabian, you didn’t comply with my directions.”

“Which ones?”

“Do you have an advisor?”

“My mother has me seeing a therapist bi-weekly.”

“No, for the club. Stop this! This is serious! No one knows what’s going on.”

“We talk. We’re writing a play. Might submit it to your contest.”

“My contest?”

“The school screenplay festival.”

Mr. Blok searched for confirmation that he knew everything that was going on in his school.

“But that’s for serious work.”

“We’re very serious. Emig is possessed.”

“Who is Emig?”

“One of your students.”

Mr. Blok returned to his searching gaze.

“I can’t imagine it would be suitable for this contest.”

“Why not? Because it’s about death? Mr. Blok, you can stop this club, but death will remain a part of your student body.”

“And you cannot exceed thirty-five people in a classroom. I heard that 103 students attended the last meeting.”

“I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there.”

How would Mr. Blok know how many kids attended? Ah, the spy.

“Now that you are back, I recommend focusing on your grades. I see unusual numbers for a Stark girl.”

“Did you just call me a ’Stark girl’?

“But you are.”

“Failing Mr. Blok. You can say that too. CJ Stark is failing everything.”

“You’re not crying as much.”

“I think the letting of blood affected my tear ducts.”

Mr. Blok fidgeted in his chair. A sign that the time allotted for this Stark girl neared its end.

“Should I tell them today?”

“Tell them what?”

“Club Dead. We meet on Mondays. Should I tell them later that Club Dead is dead?”

“No. I’ll announce it over the intercom.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little crass?”

“What do you mean ‘crass’?”

“As in, lacking refinement. Some of those kids are really into that club. Might trip them up to hear it from you so close to the meeting.”

“What do you mean by ‘trip them up’?”

“Nothing Mr. Blok.”

I left his office and saw Brink and Fretwell enter the cafeteria. Where did she get those bandages? Spies led dangerous lives. They sought intrigue, engaged in subterfuge, sometimes suffered pain. If Brink were a spy, she appeared to be on the losing end. If what I saw was correct. But since I had been not seeing things clearly these days, it would be smart not to jump to any rash conclusions. But again…

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